CAROLINE CABRERA

I guess it’s too late to live on the farm

In the symphony hall I made an undead.I bathed in a voice you had taken from meand emerged sparkling, a phantom in the roundroom. I pinged off walls and shapes, a bat,systematic in my exit. I built your specterfrom drifting, white snow and watchedas it scattered. Now the world has grown upwarm around me. Years have intervened.The task of constructing your effigy falls away.Instead loose straw, a mannerism. My heartwas iconic like a red barn, and then mybody was reddened like a barn, and nowthe barn has burned, but I built a windowbox from its wreckage. What I bury in the soilis nothing or is all my own.